LouFest is an unfortunately-named first-year music festival held in St Louis’s crown jewel, Forest Park, where Chris and I got married. The lineup was impressive (She&Him, Broken Social Scene, Lucero, Built to Spill, Jeff Tweedy), but not packed with bands we actively follow and love. Normally, we would have totally been down for going both days, but we ultimately decided not to spend the money on two-day passes for both of us. It seemed like my entire Twitter feed was going, though, and Friday I just decided to go for it and told my boy Mike D. that I was going to join him on Saturday.

I’m glad I did. I’ve been to festivals before, and this one had many small touches that made it truly enjoyable.

• First off, no fees for tickets. At all. I don’t care if they folded whatever fees they had into the costs, I appreciate the fact that if the one-day pass was listed at $38, that’s what it cost me. Fuck Ticketmaster and their “convenience” fee, because anyone who has ever dealt with Ticketmaster in the last ten years knows it is anything but convenient.
• The organizers purposely made the festival grounds larger than the expected attendance so the festival wouldn’t feel crowded. THANK JEEBUS. I hate crowds, and at festivals, I think you should absolutely be able to spread out a blanket on the perimeter and chill out without some dirty hippie hitting you with their devil sticks. My anxiety thanks you.
• Speaking of dirty hippies, this was far and away the cleanest festival I’ve ever been to. Long story, but I had blisters on my feet, so I decided to give it a go barefoot, and it was no big deal, at all. I stepped in beer once. That was it. The port-a-potties were new and clean and there were few, if any, lines. There were copious recycling booths, manned with staff, for both recycling and composting, and I’m pretty sure people actually used them.
• Also speaking of dirty hippies, I witnessed no tomfoolery of the obnoxious kind at all. I didn’t seen obnoxiously drunk people who were harshing others’ mellow. I saw no folks makin’ sexy time in public. There were no devil sticks or hacky sacks or meatheads or creepers. I didn’t see one security person have to swoop in and bust anyone. I don’t know that I noticed one security person, period. People acted like grown folks. In fact, there were many children there and they didn’t even annoy me once, mostly because I wish I was a cool enough seven-year-old to be rockin’ a Wilco shirt and giant noise-muting headphones while playing with dinosaurs at a music festival. Rock the cradle, bitches.
• The vendors were great. Food was from actual restaurants in St Louis, some I frequently patronize like Local Harvest. There were tons of vegetarian options, and much more than just fried monstrosities. Not that I don’t enjoy fried monstrosities, but not on hot days unless I’m at the Iowa State Fair or another place that offers deep-fried cheese curds. There were crepes and tacos and gazpacho and gyros and many other food items. And sushi, which I would never eat at a summertime music festival, but that’s me.  Beer was reasonable, too, at $5 for Schlafly, which is cheaper than the ballpark, for sure.

Basically, the organizers decided to make a music festival that eliminated all the things I hate about festivals. Epic win. The music was boss as hell. Lucero proved how hardcore they are and Broken Social Scene melted my face off. Same old, same old. I saw about a million people I knew, most from the innerwebs. Hey, everybody! I’m glad I saw you. Or, I’m sorry I didn’t see you. Next time!

I probably should have headed up there Sunday, too, but I hadn’t seen Chris in forever, so we, along with our friend Josh, went to the Festival of Nations in Tower Grove Park.

We went to the Festival of Nations to eat some food, period. But, holy shit, I could not believe how many people were at the park. It was insane. It was not a situation where you could eat and stroll comfortably. I was totally overwhelmed by the options for food. The various meats on a stick alone were enough to boggle the mind. We consumed plenty of that, as well as fruity beverages otherwise absent in our everyday lives. I won’t opine on the details of our culinary adventure other than to say this: Chris ate some Thai chicken satay (his first Thai ever) and said it was good and he would go eat Thai if he could have that.

DUDE. THIS IS MONUMENTAL. I love my husband and he generally humors my monumentally more-adventurous palate to make me happy. But this is an entire new cuisine he will eat! We can go eat on South Grand! It’s a gateway drug into Vietnamese and then PHO VIETNAMESE COFFEE BANH FUCKING MI. Happy day, indeed.

So, yeah, braving the crowds, along with seeing some old guy in a KU hat scream and berate his wife in front of 10,000 people, was worth it if it means that my husband and I can eat Basil Spice together. And, yes, I almost kicked a dude in the junk when he yelled at his wife, with his finger in her face, “GO GET YOUR FOOD AND MAKE IT SNAPPY”. He actually said that exact thing. Fucking piece of shit asshole. Instead, I kicked myself for not having any of the little Safe Connections cards I have for this very situation to give this lady so she would have a place to get help if she was ready to leave. I had to settle instead for loudly talking about the guy as we stood two feet from him. I doubt it did much good. Any dude that would talk to his lady like that anywhere, let alone in public, is probably pretty oblivious to reality.

Other than that incident, I will say that the Festival of Nations was a fine example of how large, diverse, crowds composed of people of all ages and from all walks of live, can act responsibly and respectfully. I didn’t see any hooliganish behavior, only people eating and smiling and sweating. This weekend was a nice counterpoint to the comments section of any Post-Dispatch article, which is usually made up solely of people like the guy who yelled at his wife. It’s also an example of how food can bring people together. You know, it’s a lot harder to dehumanize and label people as “illegal” or “aliens” or “foreigners” when they openly and happily share their culture with you, particularly if said culture is tasty food. There’s room on the rock for everyone, people, and I, for one, welcome anyone to our particular corner. Except you, Glenn Beck. Please stay in your hole far away from me.

1. The work is straightforward. There is a list of things to do. I do them. While wearing Crocs.
2. I get to be around food and kitchen supplies. It’s hard not to ogle various pieces of Le Creuset and other tools I desperately NEED to achieve culinary greatness in my own home.
3. This is complicated by the fact that I get a nice discount. This is further complicated by the fact that Chris is adamant that I quit accumulating tools in the kitchen until we have more space.
4. I get to eat food. Generally, we get to eat whatever is being cooked in either kitchen classroom. During my first shift, I ate cheddar soup, stuffed peppers, cauliflower, shrimp and crab, apple pie, and four different pastas. I anticipate gaining back all the weight I lost in the last six months. We also get to take home leftovers.
5. We can take classes we’re not working for free. Which, um, AWESOME. Yes, I would like to learn how to butcher a pig.
6. I get to meet awesome chefs. Many chefs in St Louis teach classes here, and I will get to learn from them while helping them, as well as work with my many friends who teach classes here.

Yeah, I KNOW. It’s a pretty sweet deal, until someone my friends and I have offended comes in and uses every dish in both kitchens just to teach me a lesson about destroying businesses by tweeting about subpar food. The only downside is that most classes are on nights and weekends, which means less time with Chris, since he’s got work and school and it feels like he’s never home. I’m working tonight, he’s got his fake football draft all day tomorrow, I work Monday night, he’s got class Tuesday night, etc, etc. We’re like two ships passing in the night. <tear> I’m also waiting to hear back about another gig, so I might just be a working machine.

Anyway, I hope y’all get to enjoy gorgeous weather over the weekend. I’ll be heading to the Festival of Nations to get me some more tasty vittles. Because I love to eat.

There are fewer things better for the mind and soul than having high hopes that people you admire will like you back should you meet them and those hopes coming true. I think many of us still hold on to feelings of rejection from middle school or high school, and those can resurface at events like BlogHer. And when people aren’t snobs, and instead embrace you willingly, with arms oustretched, and shower you with positive thoughts, well, it’s nice. It’s better than nice. It’s fan-fucking-tastic. I finally met so many awesome, amazing people I’ve been sharing my life with online, and they were smarter, and funnier, and more intelligent and fun than I thought possible. And when I met these people, they gave me giant, genuine, real hugs. The level of positivity and emotional generosity is unlike anything I’ve experienced.

The highlights:

• Our MamaPop writers’ party was a low-key, burrito-booze-and-karaoke-fueled lovefest. These people are witty, smart, creative, foul-mouthed, and snarky, and I feel so lucky that they welcomed me into their island of misfit bloggers. I gladly spent a lot of my time with these people during the conference, and they are now like family to me. I mean, I really can’t say enough awesome things about everyone.
• The lovely and talented Melissa Locker, she of many pseudonyms and longtime Television Without Pity writer (as well as part of the MamaPop posse) let me pick her brain about recapping as aforementioned party. I’ve been reading TWoP since the NINETIES, people, since it was Mighty Big TV and I found it because I needed Dawson’s Creek recaps. That’s longevity. In terms of writing about television, it’s like getting to talk sports with Bill Simmons.
• The Community Keynote, where I listened to ridiculously- talented bloggers read the best posts of the year in a celebration of the craft of writing. Anyone who says bloggers aren’t real writers has obviously never read these (mostly) women, and I highly recommend you take a look at their posts. I also thoroughly enjoyed several sessions I went to, namely the humor writing panel, the creativity writing panel, the sex (rawr!) panel, and my dear friend Goon Squad Sarah‘s women and sports panel. I was so glad that BlogHer decided to have a full-on writing track this year; it can be frustrating when the majority of sessions feel like they’re either exclusively for mommybloggers or geared towards “monitization”. Those are fine, but blogging is about writing. It shouldn’t be a question as to whether or not there are writing sessions, and I think the number of audience members in attendance speaks volumes. I hope BlogHer makes it a permanent fixture.
• I ate an impromptu Korean dinner with the flat-out incredible Chookooloonks, Knotty Yarn, and Mocha Momma, all of whom are some of the most intelligent, gracious, talented ladies, yet so down-to-earth and hilarious. With them, I experienced some of the most stimulating conversation I’ve had in a while, despite pretty much being agog the whole time at their fabulosity.

• SPARKLE-FUCKING-CORN. A ballroom full of pop culture posters, life-sized cutouts, glow necklaces, PopRocks, 80′s dance music, a disco ball, the above cake made by Charm City Cakes (yes, from Ace of Cakes, MP has Baltimore in the hizzy), and the best damn dance party you’ve ever been to. I’ll let you in on a secret: 45 minutes before the party was scheduled to start, the ballroom was still set up with tables and chairs from earlier events. The Hilton staff busted their asses to get tables, chairs, and a dance floor set up (there was a crane!) while MamaPoppers furiously decorated. It was madness and chaos for those 45 minutes, but it came together just in time to grab a drink before the doors opened and the fun began. Ah, teamwork. It was exhilarating to see hundreds of women cutting loose in uninhibited joy and, for me, indicative of the very best of BlogHer. No swagwhoring, no cattiness, no self-consciousness, just a pure celebration of community.
• Post-party, we grabbed some burgers from the CheeseburgHer party and headed to the hotel bar, which we closed down, finally leaving as we realized the last employee was vacuuming around us. It was a sheer lovefest not unlike the last day of summer camp. I just didn’t want it to end. I’m now pretty sold on moving to Saskatchewan so I can start a polyamorous commune with Schmutzie (who took the above cakery photo) and Palinode when the US inevitably ruins itself. Chris doesn’t realize he’s got a ready and waiting brother husband in Regina (which rhymes with vagina, if you were unaware).

Also of note:

• I absolutely could not believe how smoothly the conference ran. We’re talking about 2400 attendees, plus sponsors, and the worst problem was the crowded elevators. Every single Hilton employee I encountered was friendly and helpful, and a few went out of their way to help. The BlogHer staff really streamlined the event compared to last year; the improvements were noticeable and appreciated.
• My roommates were lovely and so low-key and drama-free. I’d room with them again in a heartbeat.

• Here’s the beautiful piece of art James Bengel created inspired by my Her Story post. It will be auctioned off soon with the proceeds going to aid in Gulf relief.

I know there’s more; I hung out with so many damned cool people I couldn‘t possibly name them all. But let me say this: if you’ve ever thought about going to BlogHer and didn’t because you were intimidated by the size, or didn’t want to be pigeonholed as a mommyblogger, or hated the thought of all the crazy people competing over who got the best free stuff (oh, trust me, there was plenty of that, but I just avoided it), or are just a shy person who thinks you have no business hobnobbing with the likes of The Pioneer Woman, I urge you to let that all go. You can avoid all of those things and get down to the really valuable stuff, which is becoming part of an empowering, positive, supportive community of writers who will embrace you for exactly who you are. If I told you the traffic stats for my blog, you would laugh at the thought that some of the abovementioned people would be in the same room as me. I’m totally Z-List. Well, maybe W-List, now, but NO ONE WORTH A DAMN CARES, and those that do, well, they can go eat a bowlful of unicorn horns.

San Diego, baby. Same time, next year.

The house had three bedrooms: one for my parents, one for us, and one for my brother and sister-in-law. My other brother, Jake, got a pullout. I guess when you turn 30, it’s full on Real World rules, because Andrew and Liz snagged the better bedroom since they got there first. When I say “better”, I mean that their bedroom had both a double bed and a door, neither of which Chris and I had. We got child-sized bunk beds in a room with no door. It was like I was in high school and my parents reluctantly said my boyfriend could come on vacation with us but they wanted to make sure there would be no privates touching, ever. Not, you know, like we’ve been married for almost five years, even if Rev Em was the officiant. Fine, if you guys don’t want grandkids, that’s your decision, KIM AND ED.

Also, Kim said that my grandma told her that she read on Twitter that I got fake boobs for my birthday. Grandma, I was being sarcastic. That, or you thought that when I tweeted that I got a part-time job, you thought that the only job I would be able to get on my own was a boob job. I still have the same little boobs, Grandma. Don’t worry.  Also, turn off caps lock. I miss you!

ANYWAY, Clear Lake is long-established as a popular vacation spot, the Dirty Dancing of Iowa, if you will, which means there is a hell of a lot less watermelon carrying but some rich people. I mean, there’s totally a town and gown vibe. It feels like every inch of property is a) developed and b) covered in nautical or patriotic decor. We cruised around the lake and gaped at people’s second homes, favorite activity of middle-class people everywhere.  Jealousy, we has it. Listen, though, Clear Lake is this totally idyllic, picturesque hamlet. I mean, there’s a town square with a bandshell and on Sunday morning there were legions of people just out and about, NO JOKE having picnics and racing sailboats and riding pegasuses and stuff.  The weather was 80° the whole time we were there, maybe even a little cooler at night, and it was heaven compared to the 100°+ humidity of St Louis.

Us? We don’t really do the whole regatta thing. We just drank booze and pontooned around and ate chips and dip. Those of you who were born and raised outside of Iowa are really missing out on the sour cream dip varieties available thanks to Anderson Erickson Dairy. I mean, there’s a whole world out there beyond french onion, and your chips are really missing out. Every now and again we docked at the Marina and went to the Tiki Bar, which, coincidentally, has the best fried cheese curds I’ve ever had outside the Iowa State Fair. They were worth listening to only Jimmy Buffett and country the entire time we were at the bar. This guy just swam up in his jeans, I think.

We also borrowed a friend’s jetski. My mom bought me these boss water shoes that may come in handy should I ever decide to float the River Des Peres.

Have you guys seen those frozen drink pouches? They are called *snort* Dailys, and they are giant juice-pouches with booze in them. They’re totally sugary and headache inducing and full of win. It’s like someone just knew about my struggle to tart up my Capri Suns with a syringe and wanted to grant me a wish. My mom bought me and my sister in-law some while we went shopping at stores that sell things with rhinestones and feathers and animal prints. Kim hooked it up the whole trip. This lady knows how to keep her kids stocked in chips and dip and peach cobbler. Ed, too. The man pretty much took us on a tour of fried cheese curds of the lakeshore and played stellar boat captain.

There are few better feelings than skimming along a lake, the cool wind washing over you, and the sun gleaming on the water. It is pure joy. I felt so lucky that I got to spend a few days doing so with my family.

See the whole Flickr set here.

Chris threw me a super-fun party for my birthday at Saratoga Lanes in Maplewood. It’s the oldest bowling alley west of the Mississippi, a second-floor joint with eight lanes (hand scoring) and lots of room for food, boozing, pool, and watching the World Cup final, which was less-than-exciting. And, of course, bowling. Many of my friends came and I thought we had a blast. Thanks to all who came out and rolled.

In addition:

• Our charter school had our review with the Mayor’s Advisory Panel Wednesday, and it went really, really well. I didn’t even make any wiener jokes. One member of the panel (who is the superintendent of one of the largest and most lauded districts in the state–where Chris works) said our curriculum and instruction plan was the best he’s seen from a charter. Things are starting to move, and hopefully we’ll have a facility finalized by the end of September, if things go as planned.
• You probably think I forgot about hardwood floors part 2, but oh, ho, ho, no sir. We just haven’t even stained yet. Maybe tonight. Things have been crazy around here, and if we wait any longer, the floors are going to be stained with two solid coats of dog pee and then where will we be?
• If you are in St Louis and you blog and have a vagina (or wish you did), come to our Pre-BlogHer meetup. I can’t say for sure, but a little bird told me there may be swag from Metamucil. Iron Stef says that digestive health is important at any age. Anyway, details are at that link, and please do RSVP. I highly recommend you come if only to try Schlafly’s AIPA if you haven’t already. It is so choice.
• So! Remember when I was flying Southwest and the flight attendant said not nice things about liberals and Spanish-speakers? And I got some canned replies from Southwest with a “we’re sorry if you were offended, but we’re just having fun!” non-apology? This week, I got a real, not-canned, e-mail apologizing in a pretty sincere way and acknowledging that maybe I was right to be offended. Plus a $150 travel voucher. So we’re all squared up, and I salute Southwest for how they handled it in the end. Honestly, I wasn’t out to get anything free. I just wanted them to know that that type of noise isn’t okay, and I think they got the message and I’ll continue to fly them.
• It’s so, so, so hot in St Louis. There’s no point in showering. Once you step outside, you’re damp from head to toe. Obviously, this means my friends and I should go camping this weekend. We went in this kind of weather last year and it was actually pretty fun. We even had a fire and didn’t melt into the backwoods of Iron County. The key is that we’ll spend the entire day Saturday at the lake in the state park where we camp watching mothers in jorts yell at their Dakotas and MacKynzies and Mercedeseseseses to put down the cigarette butts that wash up on shore. It’s like People of WalMart, but at the beach. Floating cooler for the win. Thank you to everyone today on Twitter who suggested syringes for getting vodka into Capri Suns. I’m sure someone at the beach  will have a few we can borrow.

While you are at it, check out my piece on that piece of shit Mel Gibson over at MamaPop, as well as my piece about the upcoming film adaptation of The Help. And, come back Monday, because I HAVE SECRETS.

Our boarder-dogs, Sonny and Sid, reunited with their owners on Saturday. Since then, we’ve been trying to get Neko to realize that Elliott, our cat who spent most of last week pissed in the basement, has seniority over him and generally does not like to socialize with other animals who could be described as “perky” if they were human. He’s too cool for that. To Elliott’s credit, he has been relatively tolerable, but it’s only a matter of time before Neko gets too close and Elliott gives him the pimp paw across the face.

Unfortunately, Neko’s less-than-stellar pooping outdoors skills have set off a literal shitstorm. Neko corners Elliott places, who ends up dropping a deuce wherever for lack of access to his litterbox, and probably in protest of our inclusion of a new animal into the mix without first consulting him. Chris stepped in one of Neko’s gifts early this morning.

Asher was a puppy before Chris and I met. By the time we hooked up, Asher was a sweet, well-mannered, adult dog past the age of chewing things and pooping inside. I suppose I knew that puppy ownership did, in fact, mean I would be exposed to unfortunately-placed piss, shit, and puke. I guess I just didn’t realize those things would all come on the same day. This is probably good preparation for a tiny human who operates similarly.

As is the energy! The ENERGY! Neko wants to wrestle with Asher all the time. Asher will oblige, but it just gets to the point where he says “Bitch, please. I’m the elder statesman around here. Get off my scruff.” But even if Asher stands stock still, there’s Neko, trying to jump on top of him or walk under his legs. Serves her right she walked underneath Asher yesterday while he was peeing on a bush on our walk.

She has also  been caught, on more than one occasion, trying to chew my power cord for the laptop. Listen here, little girl: playing with Mama’s laptop is like playing with her emotions. Don’t try me. You’ll be cut off from your bone supply quicker than you can say rawhide panties. Asher knows this.

Despite all this, I can’t help but smile when I feel her curl up at my feet, and I can’t help but laugh watching her trying to run with her too-big legs. Today she woke me from my trying-to-stave-off-a-cold nap by climbing on the couch and licking my ear. All dogs want is love and food and they’ll give love back, generously.

I’m getting soft in my old age.

On Friday night, after having Sid and Sunny for about not even one day, Chris said, “You know, it’s not so bad with three dogs in here. We should get another dog” to which I said, “True. No.”

So OF COURSE I came back from picking up some dead pig to eat to find another dog in my house. Chris’s mom found a stray at Willmore Park with no tags and no chip. Patty brought her over because she probably knew that once I had the actual dog in my house I would love it and pet it and she would join our wolfpack.

Meet Neko.

All I know is that there are four dogs and a cat in this 900 ft² house. And a new wool rug Big Ed gave us that also sheds. We’ve been sweeping twice a day and its’ still Pet Hair City. Which means I have “Screaming Infidelities” in my head because I keep singing “Pet hair is EV-ERY-WHERE/screaming infidelities/and taking its wear” which is just a little too emo for 95° weather. Sidenote, once I read a book about the history of emo and they talked a lot about Chris Carrabba and the title of the book was Nothing Feels Good which is just ridiculous and yet pretty perfect. The point of the story is that one cannot really think about emo with FREE PUPPIES around, amirite?

Had you asked me a week ago who would have been the sucker okaying a new dog in the house, I would have said Chris. I would have been wrong. It took about eight nanoseconds of this little girl following me around the house, nuzzling my leg, and being generally all around adorable for me to pull one of these

Here’s the whole sick crew in action, minus Elliott as obviously he’s plotting revenge via strategic urination in the basement. Please disregard dirty kitchen in light of the four dogs, two humans, and one cat residing here currently.

Asher waited until I emotionally connected to start trying to hump her. Which, personally I thought he was asexual. I’ve never seen him hump anything in over six years. I guess he’s a late bloomer.

Here’s the three black dogs, having a business meeting of sorts.

Sidenote: in addition to the Animal House, I’ve also (temporarily) got two pig heads in my freezer downstairs, which adds an interesting Animal Farm spin to the entire situation. But that’s another story.

But, damn it, every four years, the World Cup’s emergence onto the American cultural radar means I get annoyed by the following things:

1. People complaining that soccer is boring. Sigh. Yeah, and it doesn’t have electrolytes, either. Soccer is a beautiful, relatively-pure sport, simple in rules and concept. The best part about the game, as discussed by an author I can’t remember (maybe Nick Hornby), is that brilliance can happen at any time. On any given Sunday, my almost-30 body can hit a ball that goes upper-90 for a spectacular goal. I might be sore for two days, but the potential for brilliant moments is there. So if you think about it that way, then realize you get an entire month of opportunities for greatness, and you still think that’s boring, that’s your loss. I’ll happily take your seat at the bar. No, there aren’t time-outs. No, there aren’t commercial breaks until half-time. Play slowly unfolds, and fans must be patient, but the reward is unlike any other sport. It’s cerebral, and some people can’t handle it, so why must the same people make the same pointless argument every four years. Which leads me to my next point:
2. The endless debate on why soccer hasn’t taken off in America. I swear to you, it’s like sportswriters just dig up their research from four years ago, add a bit about what league folded or didn’t fold since the last cup, but largely just say the same things they always say. Unless you’ve got some breakthrough insight on why soccer still hasn’t caught up to baseball, football, basketball, or hockey, you’re beating a dead horse. Soccer isn’t as popular here as the big four: we get it. I suspect the reason we keep hearing about it is because it’s one less story non-soccer sportswriters/casters have to do actual, real research on soccer for.
3. Diving. Oh, lord, the DIVING. Players: your games are filmed. We can see (as I hope most referees do) that clearly, you just got served by a clean tackle. So why the theatrics?  Yes, I get that sometimes it serves to interrupt an unfavorable flow of play, but it’s a bitch move and makes you look like a douche canoe. Please stop.
4. Poser fans. I have no problem with people jumping on the soccer bandwagon, but I get fucking ANNOYED when people all of a sudden start injecting British vernacular into their vocabulary because they think it means they are down with soccer. If you can’t tell me the difference between a 4-4-2 and a 3-5-2 or have no idea what CONCACAF  is, and you’re American, you don’t get to talk about pubs, pints, kits, matches, or wankers. Period. Quit pretending. You sound stupid. Here’s a hint: if you don’t know much about soccer, pay attention to the game instead of the peripherals. You might just learn something.

BONUS: Even if you hate the World Cup, I think we can all agree that Woody Harrleson taking a PK while Wayne Campbell cheers him on is fucking awesome.

This year we had a record turnout of almost 50 women alums. We also had SIX All-Americans back in town. These two things combine to mean two important things: one, the old ladies won the game for the first time since ’05; two, there were so many damn young ‘uns and all-out ballers that I felt no need to even step foot on the field. I deemed myself Chief Shit Talker and Unflattering Photographer and parked my expanded-since-’01 ass on the bench with my old teammates, some of which I hadn’t seen in years and years. Apparently the cool thing to do is to continue to work out and play soccer after you graduate, even nine years after the end of your career. I vow as soon as I turn 30 and can be in masters’ leagues, I will embark on a second career the likes of which has never been seen in former Iowan/Div II players who insist on only playing half-field. But seriously, some ladies had babies and were looking fierce on the pitch. I will say, however, that my shit-talking hasn’t really lost its game. Sorry, current squad, but you just lost to people with 401ks and visible panty lines. Better step up the off-season training.

Once the game was over, a few of my ladyfriends and I filled up coffee cups with PBR and watched the mens game, then began the long, steady slide into drunkeness that characterizes not only Alumni Weekend, but life in Kirksville in general. What else is there to do? Well, let me show you.

First, we played an epic round of High Kicks. High Kicks is a game that involves several doorways, a cheap plastic bouncy ball, a broken chandelier, beer, and rules invented by a then-three year old.  The goal is to score goals and not get nutmegged.  Basically, you kick this ball as hard as you can, incorporating minimal soccer-related skills in footwork and deception, and see what happens. While this sounds primitive and unclear, it’s a drunk game you will never forget. I worked up a mean sweat.

Fucking hipsters

After high kicks, we went to a house party and did impersonations of our old coach, my friend Mike, shown here.

Then we went to the bars, which provided me with multiple opportunities for reflections on kids these days.  One, while I was known to wear a tube top or two in my day, I never wore this to a bar in rural Northeast Missouri:

Wow

Really? Sequined minidress AND silver 5″ heels? She wasn’t the only one. No offense, I just don’t remember having to try so hard that I dressed my ass as a discoball, but to each his own. Also, it was raining hard all night, so this seems like a somewhat impractical get-up, but what do I know? I’m looking for a sale on Polident and quit teetering around in heels long ago.

They turned what used to be “Northeast Missouri’s Premier Dance Club”, formerly known as Toons, into a new dance club dubbed, no shit, Wrong Daddy’s. Which, ew. Worst name ever if you’re trying to avoid being roofied. That place was trying to take people for a $7 cover.  As if. I can buy three beers for that in Kirksville and don’t have to listen to shitty pop music. Happily, there is ANOTHER new dance club in town right next door called Gino’s 70′s Dance Club or something like that.  I don’t know, but they had this floor.

In addition to this boss light-up disco floor, they also had strobe lights, disco balls, lasers, blacklights with neon stuff on the walls, and a weird projector screen with a screensaver of a woman’s silhouette dancing, complete with visible nipple on the silhouette. Where does one procure a screensaver like this, and is there a corresponding one with dude’s wang swinging around in profile?  Doubt it. Either way, by this point, I had been drinking for a solid 11 hours, and I was pretty sure I was going to have a seizure with all the lights and noise and all-around debauchery, plus I was pissed because I forgot my glowsticks. Also, some dude in an Affliction t-shirt tried to start talking shit to me for no reason. I forgot about how college-aged guys need no rational provocation to try to establish their penis size. I just laughed in his face and asked him who sold him his ‘roids. Trust me, I’ve been meating out on dudes bigger than me since you were trading Pokemon cards, son. Your fellow brosephs are not going to think you are tough when you get verbally beat down by an almost-30 married woman, so walk away now.

At this point (1:30) many people were making their way to a current players house party, but I know my limits. It was time to call it a night. It was a blast while it lasted, Kirksville, but I just can’t do it like I used to. My other responsible friend Anna and I made our way to our hotel room, where we took Metamucil and went to bed.

It was awesome to see so many old friends who share such a strong bond. See you when they induct me into the Hall of Fame, bitches.

Nine MIAA Championships, Eight NCAA Tournament Appearances

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